


what is love? (no, really)

by serenfire



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aromantic Character, Aromantic Jim, Bones Should Get Better Friends, College, Crack, F/F, Gary Mitchell is a Scapegoat for Jim's Internal Problems, Humor, Jim Kirk Fails at Life, Jim is an Adult He Swears, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jim lacks every single interpersonal communication skill, so it takes him a while to figure out he's aromantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what is love? (no, really)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luminousbeings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminousbeings/gifts).



> @luminousbeings thank you so much for the prompt! It has been fun trying to delve into the mind of these characters :)
> 
> Everyone else: if my Jim sounds like Jake Peralta at times...you cannot prove anything...all lies and slander...

**2256\. A Friday.**

So, Jim’s favorite day of the year is decidedly not Valentine’s Day. 

It wouldn’t be his favorite day of the year even if he didn’t wake up and rush into the nearest bathroom to puke up his guts. 

After flushing the toilet of his puke and rinsing and spitting in the dorm sink, Jim really looks at his face in the mirror. Just—stares at himself, trying to get a gauge for how he ended up like this, hungover and sad in someone else’s bed. 

_Well, there was a day off…_

And everyone knows what Jim Kirk does with his days off. 

Once Jim feels slightly human again and rearranges his shirt so that it isn’t inside out, he leaves the sanctuary of the bathroom to see who he actually fell into bed with. 

Gary Mitchell lies snoring on the bunk, spread-eagle over the entire mattress, and the sun isn’t even peeking out of the windows yet so Jim curses his luck and scoots back onto the bed, moving stray limbs and praying to God that Gary doesn’t wake up. 

Then he rolls the furthest he can from Gary and wonders how he got into this mess in the first place. 

* 

* 

**The Thursday Before.**

Jim has never wanted to sleep with Gary Mitchell, mainly because Gary does absolutely no actual schoolwork at the Academy and, instead, just seems to hang around the weight rooms and the library, interrupting Jim whenever he goes to either. 

“James,” Gary calls when Jim walks into the gym, towel around his shoulder, ready for some kick-ass yoga. Gary stands by the barbells and is in a rather uncomfortable position, poising himself to pick up the forty-five pound weights, muscles straining, glistening in the dull gym light. He’s not actually picking the weight up, just angling his arm to show off to Jim. 

“Mitchell,” Jim greets, magnanimous as always. He’s going to be a Captain someday, and he needs to treat all of his possible future officers with respect. Even he doesn’t have much respect for them or their study habits. 

“Want to lift weights with me?” the fellow student asks, grinning up at him, eager and edging onto something else. “Trade secrets, show me how you get guns like _that_.” 

Jim crosses his arms to hide said guns. He _really_ doesn’t want to be hit on by Mitchell right now. 

He remembers the exact feeling of relief he had when Pike had first offered him a position at the Academy, and the hope he felt for the future. Now, he imagines what Pike would say if Jim makes a scene at the school gym and pissed off one of the better students in the Security track. 

Best case scenario: Pike gives him one of his disappointed sighs in their weekly meetings. Worst case scenario: Jim goes back to Iowa. 

So Jim Kirk, known rebel, _doesn’t_ make a scene, and instead smiles apologetically. Hopefully his look is apologetic, because it feels like it’s bordering on a grimace. “Sorry, Mitchell,” he says gently, and ghosts a hand over Gary’s arm, just to make it look like he’s letting the guy off easy. “I have a workout plan I need to stick to.” 

“Oh, okay,” Mitchell says, and smiles back at Jim. The man is so _eager_ , so unadulteratedly _excited_ about a possible proposition from The James Kirk. “Maybe tomorrow—” 

Jim leaves without another word, walking to the yoga mats. 

* 

He goes back to his dorm in a tizzy, his elbows all loosened up from _namaste_ and whatever the fuck else his instructor told him to do—he was a little bit busy thinking about all the ways he would turn Mitchell down firmly, finally, if there just wasn’t a precedent of Jim saying yes to everyone who walked past him. 

_Fuck expectations,_ he seethes as he feels the twang in his thighs from too many squats. _It’s the twenty-third century, I should be able to do what I want._

But: alas, forsook. 

When he opens the dorm door, Bones greets him with his usual grimace. “What got caught up your ass this time?” he asks, in lieu of ‘hello’ or ‘take a fucking shower, Jim, you smell like roadkill’. Which are his two usual greetings. 

Jim flops on the bottom bunk (Bones’) and buries his face in the purple pillow (also Bones’). “My reputation has preceded me too much,” he says, muffled by said pillow. 

Bones pulls him out of his bed, glaring back at the rumpled sheets like they have offended him by letting Jim’s sweat soak into them. He sets Jim down at his desk chair. “Explain.” 

Jim grins. “Oh, _Bones_ , you care about me now? Do you want to hear me talk about my _feelings_?” 

“Nope,” Bones says heatedly. “But if you get it out of your system, you will be easier to deal with after dinner. You’re definitely angsting.” 

“I’m _angsting_ ,” Jim agrees. “But not about what normal people angst about! I’m angsting about my lack of feelings.” 

“Your lack of feelings,” Bones responds, more sarcastically than he has any right to. “I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about your reputation as _an easy lay_ , not your reputation as _the smartest undergrad at Starfleet_. Your lack of feelings? Give me a break.” 

“No, it’s true!” Jim insists, burying his face in the nearest angsty thing that is a good pillow substitute. Bones’ _Anatomy of Humanoid Skeletons_ , Edition Four. 

Bones pulls his head out of his textbook and takes the brick back to his own desk. “Then explain,” he says again, not as patient as Jim would like. 

“Gary Mitchell is hitting on me,” Jim says glumly, looking out the dorm window with the portable air conditioning unit hooked onto it. He does live in the cheap dorms, after all. 

“Well,” Bones cries, rolling his eyes and lifting his hands to the heavens, “the world _must_ be in turmoil, then. Whoever the fuck Gary Mitchell is has _recognized_ you as the easiest lay since Genghis Khan and has decided to test his statistically very good luck. What’s your excuse this time, huh? You’re not fond of his bone structure? Nothing, _and I quote_ , ‘against his species as a whole, I just don’t like his jugular’?” 

Jim will give him that one. It had been a terrible excuse for the fact that he had turned said bone structured person down because they had looked at him as if in awe—but not exactly _awe_ , because they hadn’t asked him to sign anything—and wouldn’t _stop_ looking at him with it. It was very disconcerting. 

“No,” Jim laments. “It’s not his face I don’t like, it’s his personality.” 

Bones blinks at him, slowly. “You’re _Jim Kirk_ ,” Bones says. “You don’t give a single flying fuck about anyone’s personality.” 

“That’s the thing,” Jim says glumly, lying his head down on the desk again. “He recites old _love poetry_ at every turn; hangs out at the library to get volumes of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Always tells me with unbounded excitement about the ones probably towards Shakespeare’s male lovers—as if I could give less of a shit about _flowers_ and being together _forever_ and _soul bonds_.” 

“Okay,” Bones shrugs, “you’re not into commitment. And Mitchell, whoever this guy is, seems like an idealist. God, yeah, idealists are the worse. Unless,” Bones suddenly amends, “Joanna becomes an idealist. Then, there is a possibility I could get behind their philosophy.” 

“Amen,” says Jim, clinking an imaginary glass against Bones’ hand for emphasis. Bones, as usual, doesn’t understand what he’s doing. 

“So why don’t you just say no?” Bones asks. 

“I _could_ ,” Jim agonizes, “but then he would tell everyone _else_ he reads his love poetry to that I turned him down. Trust me, he has a group of them, and they gossip. A lot. And he will probably think I don’t value his physique, and I’m _shallow_ , and then everyone else will think I’m shallow and it will get around to Uhura because I _know_ she’s in on their gossip chat group somehow and then Uhura will hate me more than she already does!” 

“Oh,” Bones nods sagely. “So this is about getting Uhura.” 

“No!” Jim says. “This is about keeping my reputation as—okay, fuck, _easy_ , and being known as carefree and willing to entertain anyone! As long as they don’t bug me with romance!” 

He takes a few deep breaths after the outburst. They don’t help. 

“You know,” muses Bones, “you might want to talk with someone about this. A therapist. Or Captain Pike. I mean, you do meet with him every week, right? He’s basically your therapist.” 

“Trust me,” Jim says darkly, “I do _not_ want to talk with Pike about love.” 

* 

“So,” Pike says when Jim comes into his office, making sure to slouch no more than usual and fix his face with an unfazed, unconquerable look, “I’ve been getting, ah, _notices_ , about your love life.” 

“You have not,” Jim says immediately. “I would have been alerted if you had.” 

“Really?” Pike raises an eyebrow, pressing his fingertips together. “Alerted by your bots you put on my servers via a rather badly-disguised virus? Trust me, they don’t give you any information I don’t tell them to.” 

Jim gawks. “You mean the email from the Research Department about why I’m banned from the premises was forwarded to me _on purpose_? You wanted me to know how much my teachers hate me, and how I can do nothing about it?” 

“Bingo,” Pike observes, dryly. 

Jim thinks: _I’m going to have to outsource the virus code for the Kobayashi Maru hack._

“So,” he says after several seconds thinking about plans for outsourcing the code and how to ensure it doesn’t trace back to his school account, “what notices have you been getting about my love life?” 

“Physical mail,” Pike says, and reaches under his desk to take out a package, wrapped in actual wrapping paper with pink hearts on it and everything. 

“God save us,” Jim mutters under his breath as Pike pushes it across his desk like he would a dead animal. “Who’s it from?” 

“A certain underclassman who assured me when delivering this that he was not stalking you and that this _was_ a surprise gift appropriate for the progression of your relationship.” 

“Fucking _fuck_ ,” Jim moans, tearing the package open. “Gary Mitchell?” 

“Bingo,” Pike repeats. “You’re on a roll.” 

Jim opens the package to reveal a pair of knee-lenght socks, black, with red lips on them. He glares at Pike, who is doing the Responsible Grown Up equivalent of holding his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this,” he says to himself. “First, it’s talking to me in the hallways, _now_ it’s creepy gifts that have come too early for Valentine’s Day.” 

“Actually,” Pike says, “Valentine’s Day is this weekend.” 

“Fuck,” Jim says, and then panics. “Wait; what if he expects me to buy him something _back_?” he says, aghast. 

“Then buy him something back, or call the whole thing off. Kirk, love isn’t supposed to be difficult,” Pike frowns at him. 

Jim clenches the socks in his hands, and hears something crumple. “I sure fucking hope this isn’t what I think it is,” he says, and pats down the sock until he finds a pocket. A square-shaped pocket _in_ the stupid romantic socks just big enough to hold— 

Jim pulls out a condom packet from the socks. “Fucking bloody _fuck_ ,” he says, about ready to throw the entire package out Pike’s glass windows. “Tell me this is a joke from the Research Department.” 

“No can do, Jim. This guy isn’t catfishing you; I think he’s the real deal.” 

“God _fuck_ the real deal,” Jim says savagely, balling up the socks and stuffing them in his pocket. 

* 

The LGBT Club is the only good space Jim can go with a reasonably good chance of seeing Uhura and not seeing Mitchell. It’s a win-win all around. 

Alternatively, he could also go to Uhura’s dorm room to achieve the same thing, but he would not step foot within Uhura’s place of lodging unless it was an emergency. 

So this time, when he trudges into the club meeting ten minutes after it’s started, with a hoodie soaked from the downpour outside and a mood running more rancid by the moment, an almighty burden is taken off his shoulders by his initial scan of the room. No white male human, brown hair, about his height, sitting anywhere in the circle of chairs. 

Jim shuffles in and sits toward the back—‘back’ being a relative term, as the meetings are set up in a circle to foster community and conversation. His seat is rather near Uhura’s, which is always nice. Either for slightly barbed wit or slightly aroused glances to be traded, neither of which the parties plan to be taken further than speech. 

But he’s _really_ not in the mood for it. Mitchell’s fucking _condom socks_ are still in his hoodie pocket, and they feel like stones now. He’s been debating for the last ten hours what to do with them: pitch them? String them up and burn them? Send them back to Mitchell with a note reading _no thanks, keep your fucking medium sized condom_? 

Jim at least knows _he’s_ not a medium, thank you very much. 

While the LGBT Club’s conversations usually revolve around mundane things such as student life or new opportunities to interact with the civilian population in San Francisco or how to ace Professor Spock’s mind-numbing exams without sacrificing your soul, today the conversation revolves around Valentine’s Day. 

Fucking _brilliant_. 

“My plans for Valentine’s Day,” Uhura muses, and Jim looks at her, purely by reflex. She smiles back at him. “Well, I’m still trying to find my one true love, so maybe I’ll spend it catching up on some homework until I meet them.” 

Jim scoffs. Homework, which is best relegated to three in the morning and maybe during the class before it’s due. Still, waiting for Uhura’s one true love? 

“As if you haven’t already found him,” he smirks at Uhura, the jibe rolling off his tongue, accompanied by a Jim Kirk Wink. He’s famous for them, according to the Academy’s gossip circles. 

“No,” Uhura says, waving him off with a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll find my one true love with someone who’s not been slobbered over and marked by someone else.” 

Jim sputters. “ _Slobbered_ over and—and marked? What?” 

The Klingon he doesn’t know the name of sitting next to him pats his shoulder with pity. “Gary Mitchell,” they explain, a slight gleam in their eye. “He’s been very insistent on how you are his.” 

Jim can’t _seethe_ now, he has a reputation to uphold. Easy. Carefree. 

But he’s not big on commitment, as Bones puts it. It might be easier to dissuade them of this. “Come on,” he laughs. “No one _marks_ me, guys. It’s _me_ we’re talking about.” 

But Uhura just nods at him, serious this time. “Gary Mitchell does,” she says. 

“Fuck,” Jim says, and stands up. The condom socks grow heavier by the second in the pockets of his hoodie, and his fingers have been getting their daily workout by gripping them, imagining it’s Mitchell’s neck. “I gotta go.” 

Uhura smiles widely at him. She _knows_ how much pain he’s in because of this mess. “Enjoy your Valentine’s Day,” she says brightly. 

_I will most definitely not_ , Jim thinks as he leaves the student center. 

* 

He goes directly to the nearest off-campus bar, no stopping at go, or even to warn Bones that he might not be back until sunrise. At the very least, he could drink his sorrows away, at the best, he could find a good fuck to distract him. Someone who wouldn’t wake up afterwards and quote Shakespeare at him. 

Fucking Shakespeare. 

Predictably, after Jim orders a line of shots, Gary Mitchell himself shows up, sliding onto the counter next to him. Jim glares at the wall of alcohol behind the bartender’s head and does all six shots, one at a time, without stopping for air between them, ignoring the babble of words in the background of his mind. 

He blinks into the reverie of fast-approaching drunkenness, the sweet escape of uninhibition, before he turns to Mitchell. In this light, all that stands out to him about Mitchell is his bone structure—his curving cheeks, the hollow of his collarbone, the way his breath ghosts over Jim as he leans in, looking lustily. 

Jim grasps Mitchell’s shoulder, running a finger down his Starfleet uniform. “We’re off-duty,” he tries to explain to Mitchell. “You can wear your civvies.” 

“Yeah,” Mitchell grins at him, and clasps Jim’s other hand, “but then you wouldn’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to go home with me,” Mitchell says. 

Jim blinks. How very forward of him. But then again, he has one of Mitchell’s condoms in a sock in his hoodie pocket, so this might have possibly been expected. 

And Jim—the thing is, he’s _really easy_. If Mitchell had not botched his chances by looking into Jim’s soul and telling him how he compares to a summer day, Jim would have gone down on him the second day at the Academy. 

But Mitchell had to be so persistent, and that’s why Jim can’t sleep with him. Not because he doesn’t want to—again, brilliant bone structure—but because there would be _repercussions_ afterwards. Repercussions that include Mitchell telling everyone how they’re even more of a couple, because apparently he has _already been telling everyone they’re together_. 

Hmm. In this light, these repercussions don’t seem too bad. 

In that possible instance, Jim _could_ use his influence and tell everyone that they’re not together. He can put the rumors to rest. Everyone would believe James Tiberius Kirk when he says that he’s not planning on staying with Mitchell forever, not even past the weekend. 

In this light, as Jim smiles, lime shots lingering on his tongue, all possible problems from going home with this physically attractive man would be registered null. Jim Kirk is like a superhero, able to fix all problems with a single bound. 

So Jim grabs Mitchell’s hand. “Gary,” he drawls into the man’s ear, and takes out the condom from the socks, gives it back. “You’ll be needing this, I assume.” 

Mitchell laughs incredulously in his ear. “So that’s a yes?” 

Jim has time to think _I hope he doesn’t want me to wear the socks in bed_ before his tongue steamrolls his brain. “That’s a yes, obviously.” 

* 

**That Same Friday.**

Jim wakes up again in Gary Mitchell’s dorm room. 

He checks his reflection out in the mirror. Hungover, angry, and regretting all his previous life choices to date. 

Fun times. 

He can’t roll back to sleep again, as his brain has already progressed from _I slept with Gary Mitchell_ to _it’s the weekend I don’t have an exam until Monday at least_ to _oh shit I do_ _have an exam Monday_ and _it’s Valentine’s Day_. 

Oh. Shit. 

Jim curses his fast brain and stumbles out of bed, not sparing a glance at the lovesick man next to him. _Fuck_ his drunk decision making. Drunk him knows nothing about anything, except that he can get to the cheapest place to buy weed on campus in under ten minutes if he asks Bones to take him. 

Which Bones does, but with more grumbling than an actual helpful roommate attitude. 

Jim gathers his clothes, takes two tries to put his shirt back on correctly, and tries to softly unlock the door to Mitchell’s dorm. 

Mitchell wakes up as he’s creaking the century-old hinges open. “ _Jim_?” he mumbles from his spot sprawled over the bed, hair sticking up in clumps at odd angles. 

Jim freezes. _Shit, shit, shit_. “Gary,” he says, resigned to his fate. 

“Leaving so soon?” 

This is now or never for Jim: fake an excuse and let the illusion of togetherness linger, so he retains his reputation, or make a run for it, tell the truth, let the gossip circles run wild. 

In his post-drunk as fuck state, Jim comes up with option three. 

“Mitchell,” he sighs, “I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t _do_ what you want me to do. I’m not cut out for commitment with you, or with anyone else here. This isn’t your fault, it’s mine. Goodbye.” 

He doesn’t wait for Mitchell’s tired but sober answer, and instead flees the premises. Outside on this _lovely_ Valentine’s Day, water pours from the Frisco heavens and drenches everyone unlucky enough to be outdoors. Jim hugs his shirt and hoodie around himself as he gets soaked to the bone by the storm, likely an envoy of God who is warning Jim to _go back to Mitchell this instant and apologize the non-douchey way_ , but he stoutly continues putting one foot in front of the other until he reaches his dorm room. 

“Bones,” he announces, slamming the door and kicking off his boots, draining the puddles of water into the Welcome mat, “I’ve come to a realization.” 

From his position swaddled beneath several layers of blankets, drool accumulating on his purple pillow, not having yet awoken when Jim walked in, Bones glares at him. “No, please,” he insists, voice icy cold as Jim hesitates, “tell me everything. It’s not like we all stay up waiting for you to come back before locking up, until we get the message through the social media grapevine that you’ve shacked up with the _one person_ you swore to _never fuck_.” 

Jim winces. 

“Tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” Bones sighs. 

“ _Aside_ from sleeping with Mitchell?” 

“Yes,” Bones snaps. “ _Aside_ from that monumentally stupid decision.” 

“We were safe,” Jim promises. “But I, um, kind of—well—” 

“For the love of Christ, spit it out.” Bones growls. 

“He kind of woke up and caught me sneaking out and I, um, brokeupwithhimonthespot.” 

“Mary, mother of Christ,” Bones moans into his hands. “You done fucked up.” 

“I know.” Jim sits down on his bed. He does feel monumentally bad about the entire thing, but hey. He was drunk, and fed up with _not_ sleeping with Mitchell because of the slight inconvenience of Mitchell being, well, _Mitchell_. “But I have a plan to fix it!” 

Bones blindly grabs for something on his desk, knocking over skeletal models and a PADD until he grabs it—his coffee mug. He drinks the entire thing in one gulp, wincing along with Jim, before sitting up infinitesimally. “Okay, I’m ready,” he says, rather more coherently. He waves his hand in a floppy gesture Jim interprets to mean _go ahead_. “Get on with it.” 

So Jim tells him. The Great Big Hungover Idea to get Jim Kirk out of Uhura’s Shit List. 

“Jim,” Bones says, “your club only meets once a week. By next Friday, everyone will already know.” 

“That’s the thing,” Jim says, grinning. “Today is Valentine’s Day, and the LGBT club has planned a party. Of course,” he considers, “I was planning to _avoid_ it as of yesterday, because Mitchell might be there, but now I have no choice but to bravely go.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bones says, sinking back onto his bed. “It’ll probably work. Now shut up and let me sleep.” 

* 

Okay, in Jim’s defense, he _thought_ Mitchell might be there, but he didn’t plan on his presence resulting in anything but some grated nerves and Iowan-learned hiding techniques. 

Of course, none of Jim’s escapades have ever gone according to plan, so why should this one be any different? 

The party is held on the Academy’s outdoor soccer court, which was maybe not the best idea to host an event the day that it rained at approximately 50 degrees Fahrenheit. All around the campus, streamers had been hung up in shades of pink and red, with hearts littering everything. 

A banner hangs in front of the speakers blaring pop oldies, reading, _Happy Valentine’s Day!_

The icing on the infernal cake is that Valentine’s ‘a’ is a heart. 

Jim feels like a fish out of water within the first five minutes of the celebration. He has arrived by himself, which apparently is a Valentine’s Day offence, as everyone else currently crowding the soggy field has someone or multiple someones on their arm. 

Jim, newly single, stands by the punch stand until he has determined it’s his time to speak. 

There’s no rhyme or reason to the celebration, and the punch isn’t even spiked, which means there is no alcohol within three miles of where Jim is standing—never a good thing. Music made for dancing plays over the speakers, and the couples and trios dance on the field, mud splattering their legs. 

Jim drinks half the punch container by the time he regains his not-so-liquid courage to walk up to the mic, the sun beating onto his eyes, still on the shade of too cold. 

He almost reaches the mic when Mitchell greets him, latching an arm around Jim, the other one lolling off his shoulder, his hair plastered in worse shape than Jim’s. 

“Jim,” Mitchell _pants_ , the scent of vodka in Jim’s face, “why did you have to _leave_ so early? We could have gone another round, we could have sat and _talked_!” 

Jim shrugs Mitchell off. He’s a man on a mission, with one goal in front of him: get to the mic without actively causing a carnage. “I don’t want to talk,” he hisses. “I said my piece. And I’m going to say some more, but not to _you_.” 

“Why did you have to break my heart?” Mitchell asks brokenly behind him as Jim strides to the mic. 

Some people notice Mitchell, now. They look between him and Jim, wincing. Jim thinks, _They’re in Mitchell’s gossip group, aren’t they._

Jim walks back to him and scowls in his ear, “If you want me to apologize to you, I’m not going to. I _told_ you what I did and didn’t want, and _you_ —” he jabs a harsh finger into Mitchell’s chest, “aren't it. Now. Let me _go_.” 

All around him are disapproving faces, razing eyes pointed his direction. For a second, Jim is back in middle school, banged up from his newest encounter with the police, grinning at his classmates expectantly. In return, they all look away from him, all good citizens of the Federation. 

All but him. 

Jim breathes through his anger and takes the mic, grips it in his unwavering hands. “Everyone,” he says loudly, and from the side of the absolutely terrible celebration, those planning it (who probably expected the mic to be used for official announcements, not unexpected confessions) tug on each other’s sleeves and point at him and whisper. Uhura is among them. 

“Everyone,” he says again, swallowing. He can finish this announcement. He _can_. He’s Jim Tiberius Fucking Kirk. “I am here to announce some untrue beliefs about myself that I am putting to rest, right now.” 

He points at Mitchell, currently leaning on one of his many gossip friends’ arms, walking unsteadily to Jim. “That is Gary Mitchell. I am _not_ in love with him. We are _not_ together. I don’t care what he or his friends have told you. I don’t— _do_ that.” 

Five feet away from him, Mitchell frowns, aghast. “But you _slept_ with me!” 

“Yes!” Jim shouts back, louder. “I did! It was a mistake, and I told you we’re done! But I didn’t think you would take my word this morning for an answer—and I was _right_ —so here’s me, now, telling you: no, thanks. Not with your love poems or heart-numbing sonnets or gooey professions of love. No thank _you_.” 

And Jim walks off stage, feeling more burdened and free than he has in months. 

He glances at Uhura as he walks past her. She frowns at him, and Jim mentally recovers, telling himself that _she’s_ on Mitchell’s side, _she’s_ interested in true love and soulmates and gooey professions of love, and she will never be partial to Jim. Ever. 

Uhura takes out her PADD and types something quickly on it. Jim’s spirits sink lower. That’s the gossip group; the rumor mill will be in full swing now that everyone knows Mitchell was lying, and that Jim was leading him on all these months. For a quick lay and then _nothing_ , apparently. 

Jim theoretically understands what Mitchell is feeling, theoretically understands how people can take his side, as the entire soccer field of students are doing, clearing a way for Jim to step out of their party. But he doesn’t _get it_ , doesn’t get the scathing looks or—like Uhura—the ignorance. 

Then his own PADD buzzes. 

Jim takes it out. Bones is probably hiding somewhere, the bastard, teasing him on the shakiness of his delivery. _How is a future Captain going to get anywhere with hesitation like that._

But it’s Uhura, and Jim whirls back, catches her eye. In this light, she doesn’t look nearly as judgemental as her counterparts. 

She’s typed: _so youre aro?_

Jim responds as quickly as he can as he equally quickly walks back to his room, where he won’t be judged and hated. 

_whats aro_

Uhura takes her own sweet time texting back, waiting until Jim is wiping his boots off on the Welcome mat, Bones absent from the dorm this time. 

_google it lol_

So Jim does, collapsing on Bones’ bed and casting an eye over his meager possessions for any last remnant of alcohol. 

He does, lying on Bones’ pillow and tracking mud onto his sheets, biting his lip and flipping through his PADD for information on aromanticism. 

It’s the beginning of a start for Jim. When he exhausts the outlets about aromanticism, he stays in his same position, curled in the smell of Bones’ cologne, something new and profound blossoming beneath his chest bone, right next to his heart. 

When Bones comes back to the dorm, stocked up on snack food, Jim can’t stop talking about it, so much so that Bones complains more about his newfound love of hearing himself talk about his lack of love and less about the mud on his sheets. 

And when Jim is done with the high of excitement, he texts Uhura back. 

_thx bro_

Uhura texts back quicker, this time. 

_no probs ““”bro”””_

* 

* 

**2259\. Some Godforsaken Day of the Week. (Who Even Knows Anymore.)**

Jim is a big fan of his union mandated time off from Captain duty. _Big fan._

He’s _so_ looking forward to it that he makes sure to be planetside during said time off, huddling at the corner of a bar—ostensibly because he wants to drink in the privacy of a crowd of drunks who don’t know him, not because he’s hiding. 

Nope. Not at all. 

Jim looks at the blue liquid floating within the clear vodka shot. It’s probably not blood. In his mind, he review the precautions he’s taken to make sure none of his crew can find him. Stashed his Starfleet uniform in the laundry bin: check. Thoroughly inspected his current civilian clothes for hidden bugs and such (Chekov’s shoe tracker might have helped him get out of a Klingon brig the last time, but he _just wants a drink in peace_ ): check. Told the crew via group text to not contact him for twenty-four hours because he’s “checking out, bitches!!!” and it’s been four months since his last day off: check. 

Now he can just enjoy this (very probable) contraband blood-alcohol shot thing before Uhura finds him. Or Spock. 

Jim’s on his third shot when someone heaves an almighty sigh and plunks down into the chair across from him. He lifts his head from where he’s drooling on the wooden table, halfway to a nice comatose state, and whines. “ _Bones_ , I told you not to contact me! I’m resting! Relaxing! Resting _and_ relaxing! You’re interrupting my R &R!” 

“Okay,” Bones says, and takes out a dark bottle from his jacket pocket. He, too, is in civilian clothing. “First of all: I don’t give a single shit about your R&R. Two: I am here for the same reason you are.” 

Jim gapes at him. He trekked all this way from the docking bay to this hole-in-the-wall bar in order to not tell anyone why he wanted leave, but he’s _just_ drunk enough to say it. “Wait, _you too_ were propositioned by Spock? Are you shitting me?” 

“I what,” states Bones, and he takes a swig of (probably) alcohol. “I— _no, Jim, I was not propositioned by Spock._ What did he say to you? Is—is that why you disappeared all weird on us?” 

“No,” says Jim immediately. 

Bones blinks at him. 

“Yes,” Jim amends. 

Bones reaches for the alcohol again. 

“No, wait!” Jim sputters. “It’s not my fault.” 

“Why would _you_ assume _I_ assume it’s your fault,” Bones mutters as he tips back the bottle. “Why would you _ever_.” 

“It’s usually my fault,” Jim agrees. “But it isn’t this time. This time—I wasn’t teasing him, I wasn’t leading him on—well, I wasn’t trying to—and I wasn’t pranking him. And he just—propositioned me!” 

“Explain exactly what kind of proposition. Was it the sex kind? Please tell me it wasn’t the sex kind.” 

Jim takes another shot. Half of the blue blood goes onto his civilian hoodie. “It was,” he says despairingly. “ _It was the sex kind_.” 

Bones groans, and it reverberates through the table. “Okay. I do not want to hear any more. At all. None. Nothing. I was under the impression he was dating Uhura.” 

“ _First_ ,” Jim parrots back at him, waving a very drunk finger (or four. He can’t tell how many fingers he’s waving), “he’s not dating Uhura any more. They broke up about a week ago. Very public, with lots of mutual assurances that they don’t hate each other and that they can finish this four-year-and-two-month-left mission. You don’t remember?” 

“If you weren’t screaming or accidentally breaking the Captain swivel chair, then no, I don’t remember. And please stop telling me about the thing I told you not to tell me.” 

“You just said too many words at once,” Jim says, wincing. “And there’s too much _light_ in here. Anyways, they’re not together. Spock was—moping, maybe? And then he _corners_ me in the mess hall at like two in the morning. You know, when it’s just me and Jane from Accounting and we’re all out of Milo. And I’m _super_ caffeinated so I’m pretty sure he actually said what I heard—okay, seventy-five percent—and he’s like, ‘James Tiberius Kirk, would you like to begin a relationship with me?’ And _I_ was like, ‘Whaaat?’ And _he_ was like, ‘A relationship of a romantic nature, Captain.’ And I was like, ‘Say _what_?’ And he was like, ‘Or sexual, if you are comfortable with that.’” 

Bones cradles his head in his hands, alcohol forgotten. “Don’t tell me any more, I beg of you,” he begs. 

“And _then_ his PADD beeps and he just walks off! To take care of something else on the ship! Like some Enterprise emergency is more important than asking me out on a date!” 

“I can’t give you advice, Jim,” Bones says. “I don’t have any advice for you.” 

“I don’t need advice. I just need someone to tell Spock that I am not interested.” 

Bones stares at him. 

Jim stops drooling on the wooden table and shrugs self-consciously. “What?” 

Bones pokes him. 

“Ow! Bones, _what_?” 

“You are too interested, James Tiberius Kirk. You’ve been mooning about his ass for ages. _Ages_. So don’t get cold feet and delegate someone— _me_ —to cover up the fact that you hate confrontation and you love running away from your problems instead.” 

“I do _not_!” Jim gasps, aghast. 

Bones pokes him again. 

“Ow! Okay, okay, I do. I do love running away and letting other people handle my problems. So please, Bones, mi amigo, mi bestest amigo, would you handle my problems for me?” 

“No,” Bones growls. “I will definitely not. I will drag you to tell Spock yourself, to his face, that you are not interested in a sexual relationship with one of your ‘favorite fantasies’, to quote an earlier drunken you. But what I _will_ do is tell you to get your act together! Tell him you’re not cut out for romance, but you can do the diddly doo with him all he wants! And for _heaven’s sake_ , don’t tell me what happens after.” 

“But Bones,” Jim whines, “Spock is only half-human! He has like two emotions! One of them is a _huge fucking penchant for romance!_ Like: he got Uhura _how many_ toxic Illenium flowers for the winter holidays?” 

“Seven,” Bones grudgingly agrees. 

“And _how long_ did it take you until you declared the bridge habitable again?” 

Bones swears under his breath. “Two weeks.” 

“And what does that tell you about him—” 

“Enough of the leading questions, Jim. I get it. He’s a romantic dude. But I’m sure it wouldn’t crush his two feelings if you gently told him about yourself?” 

“Bones,” Jim cries, “his other feeling is _forever holding a grudge._ ” 

“Yep,” Bones says, downing Jim’s last shot, “that’s a bad idea. But you wouldn’t happen to have any better ideas?” 

Jim mulls it over. He reflects that it is indeed easier to mull ideas over when they aren’t floating abstract kaleidoscopes in his brain. 

“I do,” he shouts, banging his fist on the table. 

“Eureka,” Bones sighs into his palm. 

“Listen—we’ll just get Uhura to go _back_ into a relationship with him, so he wouldn’t feel the need to satisfy his romantic craving by shacking up with me! There, I’m a genius.” 

“And why did Uhura break up with him in the first place?” 

“Because she was romantically interested in Nurse Chapel, who is a big fan of monogamy—oh, I see your point.” Jim’s face falls. “Wait, wait! I’m still a genius. I got this. I’ll just seduce Chapel so that she breaks up with Uhura, who runs back to Spock! Bones, I’m fucking _brilliant_!” 

“And _no_ to all of that,” Bones says succinctly. “Look, we’ll figure this mess out in the morning, alright? Neither of us are conscious enough to figure out the subtleties of our First Officer’s single digit emotions.” 

“Amen, brother,” Jim says reverently, and clinks his empty shot glass against Bones’ bottle. 

* 

**The Day After The Day Before**

“So, Uhura!” Jim says brightly. 

She turns a stink-eye on him, and Jim steps back two steps, just to be safe. 

“Bad night’s sleep?” he offers. 

“Christine had to attend to _someone_ who was puking his guts up at three this morning,” she grumbles. “So yes, I did.” 

Jim winces. He vividly remembers Nurse Chapel holding the bucket as he emptied his regretful guts in the med bay. 

“Sorry,” he offers. “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about Spock.” 

Uhura raises one perfectly coiffed eyebrow. “Okay,” she says, and takes a large gulp of coffee. “Hit me.” 

“Um, so your ex boyfriend kind of hitonmeafewdaysagoandIdon’tknowwhattodo,” Jim confesses. 

“And again,” Uhura demands. “I’m too tired for this.” 

“Spock wanted to initiate a relationship with me like a week ago, and I panicked, and I haven’t talked to him since, and I don’t know how to turn him down, please help me,” Jim begs. 

“Right,” Uhura says, maneuvering to her usual mess table. At this moment in time (seven in the morning, how the _fuck_ is Jim up this early) they are alone. “Explain.” 

“So Spock cornered me, like, three days ago, and asked if I wanted to start a romantic relationship, possibly sexual in nature. Yes. _Those exact words_. And then he had to leave because of something, and I have been avoiding him ever since.” 

“So you essentially turned him down,” Uhura says. “ _Spock_ , who you’ve been going on about since grad school.” 

“No, I didn’t!” Jim squeaks. “I have not said yes or no to him. But, Uhura, I can’t enter into a _romantic_ relationship. You know me. You know my—history.” 

“Yes, you don’t do romance. Can’t. Won’t. Whatever, I do not care. But Spock does _not_ know this because he didn’t attend the queer raves on campus, obviously. So just tell him.” 

“But he wants someone to romance!” Jim shouts. Whatever, the mess hall is empty. “And I am not someone he can romance! I am _unromanceable_!” 

Someone to Jim’s left clears their throat, and Jim whirls around to stare Spock straight in the eyes—the very confused, slightly haunted eyes. 

“Oh,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse. “Um. Spock. Hi.” 

Uhura whirls around. “I’m out of here,” she says. 

“Wait!” Jim lunges for her arm and misses as she swiftly dodges out of reach. 

“No, Jim. Time to act like a Starfleet Captain and talk to others like an adult. Goodbye.” And with that, she exits. 

Jim looks between her and the kicked puppy look Spock is sporting. He hasn’t had his morning coffee yet, so he chooses the easier way out and high-tails it after Uhura. 

* 

**Probably about 1500 Hours, the Same Day.**

Spock finally corners him. It finally happens. Jim has been successfully hiding from him for the past few hours, basically trailing Uhura to all her posts that aren’t on the bridge. He’s in a broom closet, working on answering various emails on his PADD. His head is starting to hurt, the byproduct of working in a low-lit environment. 

The broom closet door slams open, jolting Jim out of answering Sulu’s snark about how the nearest pizza delivery service is in another galaxy. 

Jim stares, aghast, at the light pouring into the room. He can make out humanoid features of an unimpressed figure standing in the doorway, but his retinae are rapidly adjusting and he can’t tell— 

“Jim,” Spock says curtly, and Jim sighs _loudly_ , resting his head against the actual broom in the broom closet. 

“You found me,” Jim despairs. 

“If you wished to hide in order to not be found, you failed,” Spock tells him, and Jim accepts the outstretched arm to help himself stand up. “May we talk about our earlier conversation?” 

Jim scratches his ear, surreptitiously scanning the hallway for any other life forms that could easily interrupt this awkward moment. As per his luck, the hallways is empty. “Sure,” he sighs. Time to Adult Up and actually face this conversation. 

“You did not seem keen on my proposition. A simple ‘no’ would suffice,” Spock says. 

Jim scratches his ear more furiously. “No, that’s not—I don’t want _not_ to, Spock. I just don’t want to do most of it.” 

“Explain, please.” 

Jim thinks: _How do I appeal to Spock while damaging both of his emotions?_

“I—I don’t like romance. I mean, I like it _aesthetically_! It just. Doesn’t fit me. You know? You probably don’t know. You seem like a very romantic dude. But I’m not. I would be happy— _very happy_ —starting a sexual relationship with you—and oh god, that sounded _so_ formal, I am _not_ adult enough for this—but no, thank you, to the romantic relationship.” 

Spock is held perfectly poised, inhumanely still, and Jim looks for a way out before Spock breaks down and chokes him again, or something. “Is that it?” Spock asks. His facial features are casual, relaxed, but Jim can’t necessarily make anything of that. 

“Yes,” Jim gulps. “That’s it.” 

Spock takes a long breath before responding. 

Jim doesn’t breathe. 

Spock says, “Did you really think that putting romance off-limits would anger me, Jim? I thought we were more understanding friends than this.” 

“Well,” Jim says, and then stops. “So you _aren’t_ angry with me? Even though you love—well, love?” 

“Jim,” Spock says patiently, “I am definitely partial to romance, but I do not care if you are not. Most Vulcans are—aromantic is the human word, right?” 

Jim nods hesitantly. _How does Spock know human LGBT vocabulary? Yesterday, he didn’t know why toasters are important kitchen items._

“I have had relationships with other Vulcans before, and my romantic feelings do not dictate what others must feel of myself. I feel these emotions, and no one else must.” 

“Wait.” Jim puts his hands up. “So what you’re saying is that you are _absolutely interested_ in being friends with benefits?” 

Spock nods. “Now that you are aware of my feelings for you and can make an informed decision, yes. I will not push you to any actions you do not want to take, Jim.” 

“Spock,” Jim says, grinning widely, “trust me, I definitely want this.” 

He makes an educated guess about the layout of the Enterprise and darts down a hallway. 

Behind him, Spock calls, “Where exactly are you going?” 

“Bones!” Jim shouts. “He needs to know the good news! _I talked like an adult and everything worked out!_ It’s a Christmas miracle!” 

* 

“That’s great, kid,” Bones slaps Jim on the back, and then snaps his mask back on over his face. “Really brilliant. Go have fun, and don’t tell me anything.” 

“But _Bones_ —” Jim pouts. 

Bones turns back to the open-heart surgery he’s currently performing. “Trust me, Jim. I don’t want to hear it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The socks are an actual real thing I found online, looked at horrified for thirty seconds, and then became the inspiration for this. 
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on my [tumblr](http://www.rosesskywalker.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] what is love? (no, really)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13213452) by [GoLBPodfics (digiella)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digiella/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




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